


Lost Time

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 03:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: John has lost a lot of things in his life. Mostly socks, lately.





	Lost Time

He’s been losing things lately: t-shirts, half his socks, four or five different books, his toothbrush. That’s unusual for him; a life of military service (and a deep appreciation for the relevance of Douglas Adams on his current career path) means that John Sheppard is a man who more or less always knows where his towel is.  
  
He even misplaces his watch, for long enough that he requisitions a replacement. He finally found it, days later, tucked on a windowsill where it definitely doesn’t belong, but the whole incident is eating at him.  
  
“John, it’s a watch. In the grand scheme of things, does it matter?”  
  
He shoots her a look over the dishes between them. A burst of laughter from the Spanish poker game at another table makes Elizabeth glance away from him, but he’s not about to let it go. This seems to be the one area where she is legitimately _more relaxed_ than he is. He’s been inside of her quarters. She could lose seven or eight watches in there. “It’s not about the watch.”  
  
Her hand lands close to his on the table, and she points at the formerly-lost accessory, now back in place. “It’s sort of about the watch, though.”   
  
He’s not so annoyed that he doesn’t appreciate the twinkle in her eye.  
  
“All right, it’s not _just_ about the watch.” The thing is, he’s barely taken his watch off for more than a shower since arriving in this galaxy, or at least, since realizing he’s on-call 28 hours a day against alien incursion. He’d rather wear it to sleep than have one extra thing to manage on his way out the door for a midnight alarm.  
  
He’s either losing his wardrobe or his mind. Either way, he’s got to get it under control.  
  
Elizabeth leans closer, and pokes his watch with the tip of her index finger. “Well,” she says. “I can’t think of why organizing your closet might have fallen lower on your list of priorities.”  
  
(When he found it, he remembered what happened—kissing by the window in his quarters, Elizabeth and the view of the city behind her, the buckle caught in her hair—)  
  
Across the room, he hears _“Colores!”_ and the clatter of cards and chips and Latin American accents, right as Elizabeth nudges him to turn his hand over, palm up. He tenses for a moment, feeling exposed in a room full of other people, before he remembers that it’s okay now. He spent too long being careful not to look like he was falling for her, and that habit is harder to break than keeping his quarters in order.  
  
He’s still in command of the military force in Atlantis. Elizabeth’s still a leader in the expedition by virtue of who she is, regardless of her title. People are probably watching her movements even more now than they ever did before; John didn’t have the monopoly on missing her, and he can’t be the only one who feels relieved just seeing her step off the transporter or getting coffee in the mess.  
  
Things have changed, though. Rules. Priorities. This thing with her might be new and tentative, but they’ve been partners so long that he trusts her.  
  
Trusts, mostly, that she knows what this means to him, even though they might step on each other’s toes, he might have no idea how to help her handle the physical and psychological effects of seven months with the Asurans, or he might fuck this up in completely ordinary ways like showing up late to their dinner plans or spending half their meal complaining about forgetting where he left his socks.  
  
He might not know how to say it in any comprehensible way, but he hopes she knows that having her sleeping in his arms—wearing one of his missing t-shirts, now that he thinks about it—is more peace than he ever thought he would feel.  
  
Her fingers have worked the strap loose, and he watches her slide it through the buckle. He can’t think of the last time someone else removed his watch for him, and he feels vulnerable with a bare wrist and intimacy on display, like everyone in the city can see how he’s changing.  
  
Then she draws his watch away and pockets it.  
  
He should have asked when she first started playing with his watch, but it finally comes out: “What are you doing?”  
  
“You requisitioned a new one, remember?”  
  
He wants to make a joke about Doctor Weir having turned to petty theft, but he’s probably said enough insensitive things lately as she comes to terms with having someone else in command of her city.  
  
Instead he asks, because it’s his, “What if I like that one better?”  
  
“Hmm...” she says, with a smile that makes him wonder why he would spend even one second worrying about a misplaced toothbrush when he has this in his life. “You’ll have to find it first.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sparktober 2014: "Theft"


End file.
